“No marriage for you, then?” I asked. Kill was thirty, and about as likely to settle down as a wild fucking boar.

“I will, to someone who is fit to sire my heirs and feels comfortable raising them away from the city—from me.”

“Are you going to time-travel to a century where an idea like this wouldn’t earn you a slap in the face?” I wondered aloud. He laughed, actually laughed and shook his head, muttering, “Little Na?ve, so na?ve. Money’s a great incentive to be anything, even a glorified slave.”

“Chauvinist much?”

“Hardly. I didn’t limit this statement to women. I could tame any man for the right price, too.”

We poured back onto the track, entangled in our own thoughts. I wanted to get away from here, but also stay longer. I hadn’t spent quality time with Cillian in years. Maybe ever. And I didn’t want to go back to a Sailor-less apartment. It always felt cold and hollow without another person there.

We got to the stables and dismounted. I thanked my brother politely.

“Their names are Washington and Hamilton,” my brother huffed out of nowhere, stroking his horse’s nose. The horse nudged his shoulder, asking for more, but Kill had already turned and looked at me. He had the rare talent of giving you just enough for you to want more, but never to bring you to satisfaction.

“Where are Franklin, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, and Jay?” A sarcastic smirk curved on my face.

“In the stables, resting,” he replied, dead-ass serious. He stood straight and looked grim, and I realized maybe Cillian Fitzpatrick didn’t always want to be Cillian Fitzpatrick, after all. It was probably daunting to be above everyone twenty-four-fucking-seven.

Fuck, I’d die without cursing alone.

I shook my head, throwing my arm over his shoulder. He didn’t swat it away like I’d expected him to, just stared at me with a mixture of confusion and disdain.

“Let me buy you a burger,” I offered, internally sweating my balls. A rejection would crush me.

“I don’t eat garbage,” he drawled. “But I’ll treat you to the best meat you’ll ever have.”

I very much doubted he could offer me any meat better than what I was pounding into these days, but agreed anyway. When we walked back to his car, Cillian said, “The Brennan girl is going to have you by the balls if you touch her. Do not touch her.”

“I could handle her if I wanted her.” My mood turned sour as I threw the passenger door open.

We both buckled at the same time.

“No, you can’t,” he countered.

“So who can?” I hissed, turning to face him as he revved up the engine. “You, I suppose?”

He backed out of the graveled parking lot, taking his hands off the steering wheel to attend to the task of PUTTING HIS FUCKING GLOVES ON. I couldn’t believe I was going to get killed in the name of my brother’s supreme fashion sense.

“If I thought she was worth the effort, yes.”

“Who is worthy of the efforts of the great Cillian Fitzpatrick?” I leaned into my seat, grinning venomously. “Heir to a Western oil empire, with a master’s from Harvard Business School, the face of a deity, the body of Adonis, and the wit of a thousand white-shoe lawyers?” I quoted what had been written about him in a tabloid a couple years ago, verbatim.

“No one,” he said easily. “None that I’ve encountered, at any rate.”

“You did date that princess from Monaco,” I noted.

His longest relationship had lasted six months. I suspected it was because she wasn’t close enough for him to find flaws in her in a timely manner. He finally put his hands on the goddamn wheel, two seconds before taking a sharp turn. “Your point?”

“You date, you fuck, you live—just like I do. You just hide it better.”

“We’re only as bad as the crimes we get caught perpetrating. Learn from the best, and make sure to stay away from Brennan and her friends while you’re at it—especially the two sisters with garbage for manners. Aisling has been parading them at Avebury Court like wild bobcats she caught in the hills.”

I thought it was odd that he mentioned Emmabelle and Persy specifically, but I was too riled up about the Sailor comment to care.

“Sure thing, asshole.”

“And stop cursing.”

“Fucking fine.”

“Oopsie-daisy. Another penny goes in the piggy bank,” I whispered in Junsu’s ear, tapping his shoulder.

My trainer jumped backward, bumping his head against the wall with a surprised yap. Junsu was never scared. This caught me off guard, and I stumbled in the opposite direction. Wincing, he rubbed the back of his head as he killed his telephone call without even saying goodbye to whoever was on the other line. He tucked his cell into his front pocket.

He’d been acting strange lately—showing up late to our sessions, disappearing down the hall to take personal calls, losing focus. At some point, I’d brought in a piggy bank I found at the dollar store next to his office and told him he’d have to put a penny in it every time he disappeared or acted strange. It was a pleasant way to make him refocus. I had to admit—the piggy bank was filling up, fast.

Last time he’d picked it up to roll another penny in the slit, I could tell it was heavy. The penny dropped with a soft thud, hitting more coppered coins. The pig’s belly was full.